Horatiana 
Cantica 
Miscella 

By 
William Hathorn Mills 



Published by the Author 



THE WAYSIDE PRESS 

Los Angeles, California 
1919 

Copyright 






CONTENTS j^^— 

'age 

[oratiana » 3 

Stet Capitolium 4 

Puellis Idoneus 6 

Militavi 7 

Od. I. 4 9 

I. 10 10 

I. 12 11 

I. 14 13 

I. 16 14 

I. 20 15 

I. 26 16 

II. 3 17 

II. 14 18 

III: 5 19 

III. 30 21 

IV. 7 22 

Cantica 23 

Jenny 24 

Gardes Joyeuses ' 25 

Eulalia 26 

Letty 27 

The Household Fly 28 

Moods 30 

Twins 31 

Claro 32 

Miscella 33 

An Ode to the West Wind 34 

Short Measure 36 

What's in a Name? 37 

Hostes Humani Generis 38 

Jingles 39 

Poetry 4p 

Dry 40 

Wet 40 

Si Jeunesse Savait 41 

Vox Populi ; 41 

Sweet 42 

Proverbs Annotated 43 



C1A532790 



Horatiana 



Three 



Stet Capitolium. 

WHETHER he sings of high romance, 
Or hymns the everlasting Sire, 
Or suits his lay to choral dance, 

Or scourges forms of base desire, 
Or paints the lady of his choice, 
Horace is still a living Voice. 

Your sweetly smiling Lalage, 

Whose spirit turned a wolf to flight. 

Your little farm by Tivoli, 

Bandusia's fountain crystal-bright. 

Your haunts, your hospitalities — 

Horace, they're all before our eyes. 

Orbilius flogged you when at school; 

You have our fullest sympathy, 
For we remember a ferule, 

That smote us oft and lustily; 
Would it had gotten into us 
A measure of your genius. 

You sang how Regulus put aside 
The crowds encumbering his return. 

Refused his wife's kiss, and denied 
Her plea with answer curt and stern; 

"Rome must be saved; let cowards die" — 

We hear it yet — that haught reply. 

How Paulus and how Cato died. 

Too staunch to fly, too proud to yield; 

How stout Marcellus turned the tide 
Of war in many a foughten field; 

How yeomen played heroic parts — 

You've stamped it all upon our hearts. 



They left their farms to fight; they braved 
All pains of death; and, if they fell, 

What mattered it, so Rome were saved? 
Her weal safeguarded, all was well. 

The State must stand, tho' men may die — 

That was Old Rome's philosophy. 

You made them household words — the names 
Of those who fought and fell for Rome — 

And you — your memory lives, and claims 
Place at their side in every home; 

Your bones lie on a Roman hill, 

Horace, but you are with us still. 



♦ 4* 



Five 



Puellis Idoneus 

Od, III. 26 

HORACE had many themes; his rimes 
At times clomb Helicon's peak; at times 
His Muse just sported; 
He sang of Gods, of mighty men, 
Of wines, of rustic joys, of ten 
Damsels he courted. 

It seems he had a lot of flames 
From first to last; his list of names 

Is gey an' long; 
Were they real living demoiselles, 
Or quite imaginary belles — 

Just pegs for song? 

Some anyhow were real, and two 
Adorned, as gentle souls and true. 

His poetry — 
The kindly Cinara — rapt, alas! 
From earth untimely — and the lass 

Named Lalage. 



Six 



Militavi 

PYRRHA bound up her golden hair; 
For whom? Well, Horace didn't know; 
Well dressed yet simply, she was fair, 
But was she constant? No. And so 
Horace, shipwrecked by her of yore. 
Thanked Heaven that he'd got safe to shore. 

* * * * 

When Lydia praised Telephus, 

Horace, indignant, made a fuss; 

He said that scratches on, her lips 

And shoulders meant beauty's eclipse; 

She'd better far have stuck to him; 

Then she'd have been unscratched and trim. 

* * * * 

Glycera's face was slippery — 

Too slippery for stedfast gaze; 
Its beauty twinkled, seemingly, 

Or dazzled as a flash-light's rays. 
Each ray was aS' a Cupid's dart, 
And Horace played the target's part. 

* * * * 

As Horace sorrowed that in battle 

He'd left his shield, and fled to Rome, 

Came Lalage, and with sweet prattle 
Shifted his thoughts to joys of home; 

Which shows that prattlings sweet may be 
Sometimes as good as poetry. 

I hope that Lalage was not 

All talk — her name implies a tongue — 
H so, she'd better far have got 

Hold of a lyre, and sweetly sung; 
Ah well — lest Horace should get rattled, 
She smiled as sweetly as she prattled. 

* * * * 



Seven 



Chloe was like a fawn, so shy 
That Horace couldn't get a talk in; 

She wouldn't list his poetry, 

Nor with him would she go a-walkin'; 

Tied to her mother's apron-strings 

She "slacked," so Horace sadly sings. 

* * * * 

A freedwoman, named Myrtale, 
Ruled Horace for a season; 

Her sway was as a tyranny, 
A triumph of unreason. 

Out upon Venus! The bronze yoke 

That linked them was her cruel joke. 

T* T* -K ^ 

Barine, beauty and coquette, 

Moved Horace to despair; 
She broke all promises, and yet 

Grew every day more fair. 
What were the gods about that they 
Laughed at it? Horace couldn't say. 

>i< sis * * 

Lyce — what of her? Horace prayed 
She might grow old. And why? 

Because she scorned his serenade, 
And mocked his lover's cry. 

The gods assented, and she grew 

Not only old, but ugly too. 

SjC SfC ^ ^ 

Of Cinara we only know 

What Horace says of her — that she 
Was good — kindly, he meant — ^^and so 

He flourished 'neath her dynasty. 
What had become of her? Ah, she 
Was then only a memory. 

* * * * 
Horace to Phyllis. Last thou art 

Of all my loves, and last shalt be; 
Lift not too high thy hopes; the heart 

Of Telephus is not for thee. 
Come to my arms; come to my home, 
And sing my songs. Ah, Phyllis, come! 
Eight 



Horace. Od. I. 4 

Now loosed is Winter's cruel grip; now Spring 
and Western wind 
Bring welcome change; the windlass hauls dry 
keels down to the sea; 
No longer stalls make glad the herds, no longer 
fires the hind; 
No longer stand the meadows white with hoar- 
frost's argentry. 
Beneath the moon now Cytherean Venus leads her 
choirs; 
Graces and Nymphs, a comely troop, ring hand 
in hand their ring; 
Now this, now that, foot beats the ground; while 
Cyc],ops' furnace-fires 
Glow, as fierce Vulcan fans the flames, and bids 
the hammers swing. 
Now is it well to twine trim locks with myrtle, or 
with flowers, 
Brought forth by fields, now thawed, as from a 
store of treasures hid; 
Now is it well to sacrifice to Faunus, in dim bowers 
Of shady groves, a lamb maybe, or, if he will, a kid. 
Marching with step impartial. Death's pale Presence 
raps its call 
At doors of rich and poor alike. Wealth, Sestius, 
is yours; 
But life's brief span cuts short the range of hope 
for one and all; 
And even now a gloom of night and storied Manes 
lours 
O'er you, and Pluto's shadowy halls expect your 
shade anon. 
Once there, no longer shall you cast the dice to 
settle who 
Shall rule the feast, nor count young Lycidas a 
paragon, 
Whom all the lads now envy, and the lasses soon 
shall woo. 



Od. I. 10 

GRANDSON of Atlas eloquent, 
Mercury, skilful to refine 
Primaeval manners insolent 

By speech and seemly discipline — 

Thee will I sing, of mighty Jove 

Herald and of the gods, whose deft 

Hand bent the lyre: adept, for love 
Of fun, to steal and hide the theft. 

Phoebus once threatened thee unless 
His stolen beeves returned anon — 

Ah, naughty boy! — scolded thee, yes, 
Yet laughed — his quiver too had gone. 

With thee for guide rich Priam made 
His way unseen past Atreus' sons, 

Past Phthian fires, thro' the blockade 
Of Troy-beleaguering legions. 

Kind souls find under thy coYivoy 

Blest homes; thy gold wand's waving gleam 
Shepherds the shades — who art the joy 

Of gods inferne and gods supreme. 



Ten 



Od. I. 12 

CLIO, what man's, what hero's, fame 
Art fain with shrill-toned pipe to sing, 
Or lyre: what god's — that so his name. 
Flung back by echo's laugh, shall ring 

Or in the shades of Helicon, 

Or upon Pindus' heights, or chill 
Haemus, whence woods swept blindly on 

At tuneful Orpheus' heels, whose skill, 

His mother's grace, made his art strong 

To stay torrent and hurricane — 
Made it a charm to draw along 

The listening oaks that heard his strain? 

Whose praise shall sooner claim my song 

Than his, whom gods and men obey: 
Whose seasons spin the world along. 

Above, below, with tempering sway? 

Naught greater than himself proceeds 

From him; naught next his being is, 
Or like it; yet her mighty deeds 

Give Pallas nearest rank to his, 

I will not let thy prowess go, 

Liber, unsung — no, nor thy fame, 
O Virgin huntress, nor thy bow, 

Phoebus, whose shafts miss not their aim. 

Alcides too, and Leda's sons — 

Famed cavalier, famed pugilist — 
I'll hymn — to mariners twin suns 

Of hope, for tumbling breakers whist. 

Soon as their white stars shine, and fall 

Back from the rocks: rude tempests cease: 

Clouds flee: waves' threats subside, and all, 
Since such their will, is calm and peace. 

Eleven 



What name comes next? I hesitate — 

Romulus, Numa's quiet sway, 
Proud Tarquin's tyranny, Cato's fate — 

The death that is his fame for aye? 

Regulus, Scaurus, Paulus wight. 

All reckless of his mighty soul 
When Carthage won, in words of light 

Grateful I'll set on honour's roll. 

Fabricius, Curius unshorn, 

Camillus — these stern penury 
Reared, sons of toil, and yeomen-born, 

To be true sons of chivalry. 

As thro' unnoticed ages grows 

The tree, so grows Marcellus' fame; 

As moon 'mid lesser lights, so glows 
The Julian star with brightest flame. 

Father and guardian of our race, 

Great Saturn's son. Fate gives to thee 

Charge of great Caesar; of thy grace. 
Reign thou; let him vicegerent be. 

Whether he breaks their threats, and leads 
In well-won triumph Parthia's hosts. 

Or smites Chinese and Indian breeds. 
Who dwell below the Orient's coasts, 

Beneath thee let him rule the world 
In justice, while thy ponderous car 

Shakes heaven, and while thy lightnings hurled 
On unchaste groves make holy war. 



Twelve 



Od. I. 14 

SHIP of the State, new waves will bear 
Thee back to sea. What doest thou? Fight 
To make the port; thy sides are bare 
Of oars — ah, seest thou not thy plight? 

Sprung by the swift South wind thy mast 
And sail-yards groan; thy straining back, 

Unfrapped by ropes, can scarce outlast 
The sea's too tyrannous attack. 

Thy sails are all unsound; thou hast 

No gods whose guardiance thou mayst claim, 

When swept by some fresh tempest-blast; 
What tho' thou boastest race and fame, 

As Pontic pine, and nobly born, 
Gay poops bring mariners no cheer; 

Beware lest thou become a scorn — 
A laughing-stock for winds to jeer. 

Of late did'st vex and tire my soul; 

Now dear, dost still disturb my ease; 
Prithee, avoid the seas that roll 

Between the shining Cyclades. 



Thirteen 



Od. I. 16 

O FAIRER than your mother fair, 
Put whatsoever end you please 
To my lampoons — no matter where, 
In furnace or m Hadria's seas. 

Not Dindymene — no, nor he 

Who sits upon his Pythian seat — 

So shakes priests' souls with ecstacy; 
Not Liber; not so fiercely beat 

Their cymbals Corybants, as grim ire 
Rages; which fears nor Noric steel, 

Nor wreckstrewn sea, nor savage fire, 

Nor Jove's down-rush with flash and peal. 

Prometheus, forced to add a part 
Cut from each creature to our clay 

Primaeval, grafted on our heart 

A mad lion's might — so legends say. 

Passions once laid Thyestes low 

In ruin, and have come to be 
Root-cause of utter overthrow 

To lofty cities, presently 

Ploughed under by some haughty foe. 

Restrain your wrath; me too, alas! 
A hot heart tempted long ago. 

In life's sweet youth; mad that I was, 

I dashed off libels. Courtesy, 
Not rudeness, now shall be my part. 

If but, my taunts withdrawn, you'll be 
My friend, and give me back your heart. 



Fourteen 



Od. I. 20 

WINE of a common Sabine brand 
In moderate cups your thirst shall slake- 
Wine stored and sealed by my own hand 
In an old jar of Grecian make, 

When from the theatre rang out 

Your praise, dear knight Maecenas, till 

Your native banks returned the shout, 
And echoes laughed from Vatican hill. 

Then wine from a Calenian press. 

And Caecuban, shall cheer your soul; 

Falernian grapes, I must confess. 
And Formian, temper not my bowl. 



Fifteen 



Od. I. 26 

THE Muses' friend, I'll cast all fear 
And grief to wanton winds, to bear 
Where Cretan billows roll, 
Utterly careless what dread king 
Rules 'neath the cold North, or what thing 
Frights Tiridates' soul. 

O thou, to whom fresh springs are dear, 
Nymph of Pimplea's fountain clear, 

Weave of thy grace a wreath; 
Weave it for Lamia, my friend; 
Weave it of sunny flowers that blend 

Thy sweetness with their breath. 

Honours that I can pay are naught. 
Apart from thee — the gracious thought 

That tunes my new cithern; 
Bid it with Lesbian quill — the gift 
Were worthy thee and thine — uplift 

This man to life eterne. 



Sixteen 



Od. II. 3 

REMEMBER, Dellius, doomed to die 
Some day, to keep a level mind 
When times are hard, nor pridefully 

Exalt your horn when Fate seems kind — 

Aye, doomed to die, whether each dawn 
Renews your griefs, or days of rest 

Comfort you, couched on some far lawn, 
With old Falernian of the best. 

Why does white poplar interlace 

With mighty pine its welcoming shade? 

Why does fleet rivulet toil to race 
Adown the maze its frets have made? 

Bid them bring hither wines, nards, blooms— 
Rose-blooms, sweet all too brief a space — 

While means and youth and the dark looms 
Of the three Sisters grant us grace. 

You'll leave parked hall and villa fair. 

With yellow Tiber rolling by; 
All that you bought you'll leave; your heir 

Will own the wealth you heaped on high. 

Rich scion of Inachus, or poor 

And lowliest-born, with heaven's bare ceil 
For roof — no matter, Orcus dour 

Will set on you his ruthless heel. 

One bourn awaits us all; each lot. 
Tossed in the urn, or soon, or late. 

Leaps forth, and — doom that changes not — 
Exiles us on the bark of Fate. 



Seventeen 



Od. 11. 14 

AH Postumus, my Postumus, the fleeting years 
roll by; 
Wrinkles and ever nearing eld stay not for piety: 
Relentless they, relentless death's unconquered tyranny, 

Ah no; tho' with three hecatombs of bulls each day 

you, try 
To soften Pluto's tearless heart, whose sad stream's 

custody 
Prisons thrice ample Geryon and Tityon, you must die. 

For, friend, that river must be crossed by each and 

every one 
Of all whom Earth's large bounty feeds and rears 

beneath the sun : 
By kings, by needy husbandmen, by every mother's son. 

Vainly we seek to shun the risks and threats of 

bloody war: 
The rage of waves that swell and break where 

Hadria's billows roar; 
Vainly we fear the autumnal blights that blow from 

Afric's shore. 
No soul may miss Cocytus' gloom — the languid 

streams that roil 
Moaning along: the Danaid brides whose shame 

naught can assoil: 
Sisyphus, son of Aeolus, doomed to unending toil. 
Earth, home, sweet wife — these must you leave — 

aye, all that you hold dear; 
And, of the trees that you, their short-lived master, 

cherished here. 
Only the hateful cj^^ress shall at last attend your bier. 

Your Caecuban — a hundred keys once locked it in 
your store — 

A better wine than sacred feasts into priests' gob- 
lets pour — 

A worthier heir shall drink it, and its pride shall 
stain the floor. 

Eightae'/i 



Od. III. 5 

THAT Jove is lord of all above 
His thunders and his lightnings show; 
Persia and Britain tamed shall prove 
Augustus demigod here below. 

That ever a soldier Crassus led 

Should wed — ah Senate! ah the sin! — 

A barbarous mate to shame his bed, 
And grow old with her hostile kin, 

Serving a Median king — and he 

A Marsian or Apulian — 
Forgetting — ah, that it should be! — 

The name that linked him to his clan: 

The shields borne by the Salii: 

The civic cloak, and — type of home — 

The Vestal fires that never die — 

Tho' Jove still keeps the gates of Rome! 

'Twas fear of this made Regulus 

Reject base terms of peace with scorn. 

Inferring precedents ruinous 
To generations yet unborn, 

H prisoners were not left to die 

Unpitied. "Punic shrines display," 
Quoth he, "our eagles — have not I 

Seen them — seen weapons snatched away 

"From warriors' unresisting hands — 
Seen on free backs arms twist askew, 

Gates left unbarred, and enemy lands. 
Swept by our war, now tilled anew? 

"Ransomed by gold, doubtless, a man 

Returns the bolder! Ah, 'tis loss 
Added to foul disgrace; for can 

Dyed wool regain its native gloss? 

Nineteen 



"Nor does true valour, once expelled, 

Care to replace poltroonery. 
Free the snared stag from toils that held 

It captive — will it fight? Will he, 

"Who to a treacherous foeman knelt, 
Be brave, and in a second strife 

Crush him — who on his shoulders felt 
The thongs, nor fought, but clung to life? 

"He, knowing not whence true life is won, 
Confounded peace with war. O shame! 

O mighty Carthage, throned upon 
The wrecks of Italy's fair fame!" 

His chaste wife's kiss, the lads he loved, 
He put aside, in outlaw's wyse — 

So runs the tale — and all unmoved 
Bent sternly down his manly eyes; 

Till by new counsel he made strong 

The Fathers' wavering will, and straight 

Went forth, his sorrowing friends among, 
A glorious exile, to his fate. 

He knew what tortures were in store 
For him, and yet he pushed his way 

Thro' troops of hindering kinsfolk, nor, 
Tho' crowds beset him, brooked delay, 

As tho', some clients' law-suit tried 

And won, he sought a holiday 
By green Venafro's country-side. 

Or Dorian Taranto's bay. 



Twenty 



Od. III. 30 

LO, I have reared a monument that bronze shall 
not outlast, 
More lofty than the pyramids that despots piled 
of yore; 
Its strength defies devouring rain, defies the un- 
governed blast 
Of Aquilo, the wind that blows from where the 
North seas roar; 
It shall survive when the unnumbered tale of years 
is past, 
When days and months have ceased to be, and 
Time shall be no more. 

There's that in me which shall not die; that which 
is most of me 
Shall win where the death-goddess has no part 
nor lot; my fame 
Shall grow with increase ever new as the ages yet 
to be 
Uplift their voice in praise of me, and magnify my 
name, 
While up the Capitol shall climb, in solemn com- 
pany, 
Pontiff and they whose silent care guards Vesta's 
holy flame. 

It shall be said of me, who, where Ofanto storms 
along 
Raging, and where o'er arid realms ruled Daunus 
in old days. 
Waxed strong from low estate, that I, first of all 
sons of song, 
Married to modes of Italy Aeolia's lyric lays. 
Be proud of right, Melpomene, and, for to thee be- 
long 
The honours, will to crown my brow with great 
Apollo's bays. 

Twenty-one 



Od. IV. 7 

THE snows have fled; returns to every mead 
Its grass, its crown of leaves to every tree; 
Earth changes with the change; at lessened speed, 
Within their banks, the rivers seek the sea. 

The Graces and the Nymphs with never a fear 
All naked dance the happy hours away; 

Look not for things immortal — warns the year, 
Aye, and the hour that steals the gracious day. 

West winds abate the frosts; summer anon 
Tramples on Spring, itself to disappear 

As Autumn sheds its fruits; then, Autumn gone, 
Winter comes back to close the working-year. 

Yet, fast as moons wane in the sky, as fast 

They wax; but we, poor mortals, when we fare 

Whither the mighty ones of earth have passed. 
Are naught but dust here, naught but shadows 
there. 

Who knows whether the gods who reign above 
Add a new day's span to the sum of this? 

Live while you live; that which the soul you love, 
Your self, enjoys, your greedy heir will miss. 

Once you are dead, once Minos, judge of men, 
Has fixed by doom august your destiny, 

Not rank, Torquatus, shall restore you then; 
Not eloquence; not even piety. 

Dian despite, Hippolytus remains, 

Chaste tho' he was, hidden in nether gloom; 
Nor can the love of Theseus break the chains 

That hold Peirithous in dark Lethe's tomb. 



Tw<enty-tW'0 



Cantica 



Twenty-three 



Jenny 

WHAT'S in a name? Her name is Jenny, 
And of all girls I know not any 
Who can with her compare; 
For Oh! her eyes are bright as dew; 
And Oh! her face is fair to view; 
And her hair is golden hair. 

But I don't think half as much, I swear, 
Of her fair sweet face, and her golden hair, 

As I think of her loyal heart; 
For its beauty is beauty that can't grow old; 
And its truth is truer than truest gold, 

And will hold me till death us part. 

She went for a walk with me one day, 
And Oh! I didn't know what to say; 

I was bashful, shy, tongue-tied; 
But we looked in each other's eyes, and they 
Said all, I guess, that there was to say, 

Except what our lips implied. 

And so to me the name of Jenny 

Spells wife and love and home and many 

A year, I hope, of bliss; 
So a name may have in it paradise; 
And a tale may be told by silent eyes, 

And explained by a silent kiss. 



Tw'enty-four 



Gardes Joyeuses 

WE built joy-castles on the sand, 
As Prince and Princess of our land, 
And warders of her shores; 
We'd hardly come to our full growth 
In those far days; in fact we both 
Wore frocks and pinafores. 

Refrain. 

O we played together once, 

And I should be a dunce, 
If I didn't want to play with her for ever and a day; 

But, since our life is not 

All a play-time byi a lot, 
I would work for her and with her, and would 
cherish her for aye. 

I'm building castles still, but they 
Are in the air as yet, and may 

Remain a dream-creation; 
She, only she, can bid them take 
Shape, for I build them for her sake. 

And for her approbation. 

Refrain. 

Will she? I'm waiting yet awhile 
Until I've amassed a sufficient pile 

For a castle in miniature; 
And then I'll be off to my lass, I guess, 
And ask her to rule it as its Princess 

So long as our lives endure. 

Refrain. 

Twenty--fiV'e 



Eulalia 

' 'C WEET-HEART" they call her, when we meet 
^ Our men-friends sauntering down the street; 
"We" means Eulalia and myself; 
I'm an old fellow; she's an elf. 

Refrain. 

"Sweetheart," "Sweetheart," they gaily cry, 
And then they smile and wave good-bye; 

That's now; but, I guess, some day 
'Twill be — not a smile and a waved good-bye, 
But — "Sweet-heart, love me or I die;" 

For that's what they mostly say. 

It doesn't move her much as yet — 

That word "Sweetheart;" her thoughts are set 

On other matters, such as toys, 

And dolls that mimic baby-boys. 

Refrain . 

She's two years old, and so, you see, 
Has no care yet for galanteries, 
No use for a lover's vows; and yet 
She's a bit, I reckon, of a coquette. 

Refrain. 

Natheless she keeps a special place 
In her heart of hearts, and a special grace, 
For daddy, and mummy, and grandmamma, 
Aye, and for me — her grandpapa. 

Refrain. 

Twenty-six 



Letty 

WE sat on an ancient jetty — 
Sally and Kate and I; 
And, when I called Kate pretty, 
Scorn flashed from Sally's eye; 
Then, when to comfort Sally, 

I said she was fair to see 
As "Sally in our alley," 

Kate turned her back on me. 

Next time I sought that jetty, 

I left those girls behind. 
And took with me dear Letty, 

For her heart, I knew, is kind. 
I said they were very pretty — 

Those two; but she didn't care, 
For I had my arms round Letty, 

And v/as kissing her soft brown hair. 

They're fairer in face than Letty 

To the casual outward gaze. 
But I reckon her most pretty 

Who's pretty in thoughts and ways. 
She's beautiful, is my Letty, 

With the beauty of inward grace; 
There's nothing in her that's petty — 

Nothing that's mean or base. 

The waves were gently lapping 

That ancient jetty's side. 
When, my arms about her wrapping, 

I asked her to be my bride. 
And they seemed to murmur lowly — 

"So long as our waters roll: 
So long as your love is holy: 

You twain shall be one soul." 



Twe7ity-^even 



The Household Fly 

OF pests which the primaeval curse 
Brought into our economy — 
Snakes, gophers, bugs — not one is worse 

Than the ubiquitous house-fly. 
It spreads disease — that sums in brief 

The tale of its delinquencies; 
Therefore, that you may win relief 

From this grave nuisance, swat the flies. 

Refrain. 

O swat the flies with all your might; 
Swat them from morning unto night; 
Swat them in kitchen and boudoir; 
Swat them on ceiling and on floor; 
Swat them on table and on bed; 
Swat them till every fly is dead. 

Yet in this creature, sooth to say, — 

This plaguey worrying house-fly — 
There is just one redeeming trait; 

It makes a field for energy. 
For, say you're growing over-stout 

Yet hate to take hard exercise, 
Here's a device will help you out — 

Start a campaign against the flies. 

Refrain. 

You're far too lazy to get up 

Some morn, and go about your chores; 
What stirs you? Not your early cup 

Of tea, but flies that end your snores. 
Your afternoon siesta's been 

Far too prolonged a lethargy; 
A fly appears upon the scene. 

And lo! you're all activity. 



Refrain. 
Tw'enty-eight 



Or say you've been rejected, and 

Scorned, by some girl you thought a duck; 
You feel a bit dejected, and 

Cheapened, and down upon your luck; 
You mope; you need some occupation 

To change your thoughts, to stop your sighs; 
Jump up, and serve your generation, 

Aye and yourself, by swatting flies. 

Refrain. 



Twenty-nine 



Moods 

I FISHED one day for the wily trout, 
On a pine-girt mountain lake; 
But, spite of my pains, my luck was out, 

For my lures they would not take. 
I tried them with worms, with spoons, with flies; 

I offered them salmon-roe; 
But, try as I would, I got no rise. 
No bite; it was all no go. 

I fished one day for my Lady's smiles. 

But fished for them all in vain; 
I tried on her all my arts and wiles, 

To be met by a cold disdain. 
I got no smile from her — much less 

A kiss — tho' I pled and sighed; 
She deemed my flatteries foolishness, 

And put my appeals aside. 

I fished that lake another daj'. 

And caught quite a lot of fish; 
They rushed at the bait, and I had as gay 

A time as I well could wish. 
On the morrow I found my Lady kind; 

In the light of her smiles I basked; 
She kissed me. How often? Well, never mind. 

But she gave me each kiss I asked. 



Thirty 



Twins 

You may think it past conceiving- 
Most anybody would — 
But once two girls, believing 

I was wooing one, I wooed. 
Twin sisters they— the bother 

Was this, and this the hitch — 
They were so like each other, 
I knew not which was which. 

Now, whether it was Polly 

Or Molly whom I kissed 
To wonder now were folly; 

'Twas all "love-in-a-mist." 
But, when I asked fair Polly, 

As I thought, to marry me, 
It happened to be Molly 

Who was sitting on my knee. 

So my wife's name is Molly; 

It's good enough for me; 
I meant it to be Polly, 

But that was not to be. 
What's in a name? My Molly 

Is as fair and sweet, you bet, 
As Polly. What of Polly? 

O, she turned Suffragette. 



Thirty-one 



Claro 

' ']\/f AN wants but little here below, 
^^^ But wants that little strong" — 
So someone burlesqued years ago 

The words of an old song. 
Reverse that maxim, and you have 

A counsel wise and true, 
Which will, if you're a smoker, save 
You cash and trouble too. 

Refrain. 

O smoke tobacco by the ton, 

If you like, whenever your work is done, 

Or you for it have leisure; 
But smoke it mild, and then you'll find 
Your "Lady Nicotine" will be kind, 

And give you only pleasure. 

Tobacco, if you smoke it strong, 

Intoxicates your soul; 
It wrecks your nerve, and makes you long 

To play the slacker's role; 
Smoked mild it soothes, and the dreams it brings 

Are uplifts of the heart; 
They bid you aim at noble things. 

And play the hero's part. 

Refrain. 



Thirty-two 



Miscella 



Thirty-three 



Ode to the West Wind 

TYPHOONS, siroccos, and tornados — 
In fact all gales of that description — 
Rank with the vilest desperadoes, 
And claim all forms of malediction. 

They're bad 'uns; yet they can't be worse, 
These — shall we call them devil's brooms?— 

Than California's chiefest curse, 
Mohave's villainous simooms. 

They sweep down telephone-posts and trees; 

Lift roofs from houses, crops from land; 
Blast the young plants, worse than a freeze, 

And block the roads with drifts of sand. 

Some call them Santa Anas — why, 
I know not, and I cannot guess; 

Each blast is an atrocity. 
And Santa Ana ought to bless. 

Maybe that, as the Axein sea 
Was called the Euxein, to appease it, 

So too Mohave's infamy 

Received a holy name to please it. 

But naught appeases it; one foe 

Alone, the West Wind, can defeat it; 

Wherefore, O Western breezes, blow. 
And make this blustering demon beat it. 

Mostly ye are as temperate airs, 

Which cool our brows and fan our faces; 

But, when Mohave's desert swears. 

Beat back with blasts its contumacies. 



Thirty-four 



All winds are spirits; this wind, I guess, 

Comes from Gehenna's lowest pit, 
And makes Mohave's wilderness 

Its camping-ground — bad luck to it! 

Can it be that a secret shaft 

Runs up from this infernal den, 
And that thro' it these blasts are waft 

Abroad to vex the souls of men? 

If so, the State Authorities 

Should take prompt steps to choke this tunnel 
By pouring adequate supplies 

Of sand down a gigantic funnel. 

The Santa Fe folk, after all, 

Might, to help things, if they saw fit, 

Block the Cajon Pass w4th a wall. 
And let these Northers bust on it. 

A mountain-high wall, strong and tough. 
Proof against every storm and gale — 

'Twould give these wretched Northers snuflf; 
They'd sneeze their hearts out, and turn tail. 



Thirty-five 



Short Measure 

SONGS of two verses? Could the nightingale 
Cut short her melody, 
And in two stanzas gather up her wail, 
Her passionate elegy? 

Carols of soaring lark, and fluting thrush — 

Are these wild strains too long? 
Can we cry out to them, and say, "O hush! 

Shorten, ye birds, your song?" 

Do its five verses and long lines rule out 

Our noble battle-hymn? 
What should we call him but a shameless lout, 

Who rent from it one limb? 

Two verses are at time, no doubt, enough — 

More than enough — they pall; 
But are they worth, if fashioned of such stuff. 

Music and voice at all? 

Why do folk crave short songs? Because they want 

To shorten the programme? 
If that's the case, then let each singer chant 

A two-lined epigram. 

Is it to get as many names upon 

The list as possible? 
Then let 500 "Stars" each utter one 

Curt monosyllable. 

Or is it just the old Athenian craze 

For hearing something new? 
In that case let the crazed ones spend their days 

And nights in some big Zoo. 

Thirty-six 



What's in a Name? 

10NCE asked a small company, 
That sat around the fire, 
What little gift to each would be 
An object of desire. 

Two children, two years old pr so, 

I questioned for a start; 
Cookies and chocs, they let me know, 

Came nearest to their heart. 

Then next I asked a little lad 

What sort of gift he'd like; 
He promptly said that he'd be glad 

To own a motor-bike. 

A girl — she'd like a book to read; 

A lady — well, she felt 
That a new hat would meet her need, 

Likewise a silver belt. 

Lastly I asked old Uncle — would 

A pipe be best or, maybe. 
Cigars? "You'll pay?" — he answered — "Good; 

I'D LIKE TO KISS THE BABY." 

Well, well; so far as in me lay, 

I met their wants, I think; 
But O! why couldn't old Uncle say 

He meant a long, long drink. 

For I went hunting all around 

To find some handy baby; 
There wasn't a baby to be found. 

And I got called a gaby. 

What's more — what made me sui.e of this 

Was Uncle's scornful mirth — 
He wouldn't have given a babe a kiss 

For all that he was worth. 

Thirty-seven 



Hostes Humani Generis 

THIS earth of ours — what use has it 
For "Reds," for "Bolshevists," 
For "I-won't-works?" Well, not a bit 
More than for Huns' mailed fists. 

Man is a social being, set 

In a community; 
And common life claims, as a debt, 

Work, Order, Sympathy. 

As for these Bolshevists and Co, 

Their object is to live 
An others, not for them, and so 

They want to grab, not give. 

Aye, and this selfish spirit, run 

Riot, breeds infamies; 
Begets the Turk; begets the Hun: — 

Rival atrocities. 

Wherefore let those who claim to be 
Industrials, and won't work. 

Find in some penitentiary 
Tasks that they cannot shirk. 

And let that progeny of Cain- 
Huns, Reds, and Bolsheviki — 

Be dumped in some far-distant main. 
To hobnob with Auld Reekie. 



Thirty-eight 



Jingles 

HYMNS, lyrics, epics of romance, 
Tragedy, Comedy, 
Love poems. Choral song and dance, 
Sum up all Poetry. 

ifi ^ i^ ^ 

7 Muses ruled all Poetry — 

Thalia and Melpomene , 

Erato and Terpsichore, 

Polymnia and Euterpe, 

And — queen of verse heroic, she — 

Last, but not least, Calliope. 

* * * * 

Thalia's sock meant Comedy; 
Melpomene's buskin, Tragedy; 
Terpsichore was Muse of choirs; 
Erato sang of love's desires; 
Polymnia hymned the deities; 
Euterpe fluted melodies — 
Called "lyrics" nowadays, but they 
Were "melics" in Euterpe's day. 
As for Calliope — well, she 
Claimed mighty Homer's fealty. 



Thirty-nine 



Poetry 

THE verse of Homer, Virgil, Sophocles, 
Aeschylus, Horace, Ovid, aye, and what 
Shakespeare and Milton sang — such songs as these 
Will let you know what's Poetry, what's not. 

You'll get it anyhow stamped upon your soul 
That Poetry has laws of symmetry — 

Of rhythm and form — and gains thro' their control 
A beauty that is of eternity. 

Aye, and you'll find that Poetry is kin 
To Music, kin too to the painter's art: 

That each interprets each, and that they win 
The world's acceptance as they touch its heart. 



* * 



Dry 



( i 



I DREAM of. you all the night long; 
I dream of you by day:" — 
That was the lost explorer's song. 
The 49er's lay. 

What was it all about? A lass? 

Gold? A lost pipe? A feast? 
Well no; the motif of it was — 

"OLD SCOTCH; A QUART AT LEAST." 

Wet 

THE town embraced a jail (not used) for loons. 
Post Office, Customs' House, a Picture Show, 
Two Stores, bull-ring and cock-pit, and, by Jo!- 
What made the place — just 42 saloons. 

Forty 



Si Jeunesse Savait 

IF youth but knew 
What old age knows, 
What would it do, 
Do you suppose? 

Well, infantile 

Precocity 
Means infantile 

Mortality. 

So youth, made pre- 
maturely wise, 

Might win a pre- 
mature demise. 



<$> <$> 



Vox Populi 

I CANNOT sing an old song, tho' 
That's what I'd like to do; 
Songs now must have two verses; so 
Old-time songs are taboo. 

I must obey; and, as the soul 

Of wit is brevity, , 
So my song's soul — in fact, its whole — 

Is "Howdy-do? Good-bye." 

Forty-one 



Sweet 

SWEET is the sunrise, when it's clear, 
And sweet the sunset ray; 
Sweet are the wild flowers that appear 
When Spring has come-to stay. 

Sweet are the dimples on the face 

Of a small child at play; 
And sweet a woman's smiles, in case 

She gets her own sweet way. 

Sweet is the taste of strawberries 

And peaches, if they're ripe; 
But sweetest of all sweet things is 

The after-breakfast pipe. 



Forty -two 



w^mmi5'M4:7r 



Proverbs Annotated 

i iQ LOW and steady wins the race," 
•^^ What! when raging lions chase? 

^ 3|* ^ ^ 

"A cat in pattens catches no mice." 

Who'd clog the cat? Who'd try it twice? Cp. ''Bell- 

the-Cat." 

* * * * 

"A stitch in time saves nine." 
Bad rhyme: moral fine. 

* * * * 

"Birds of a feather flock together." 
Carrion crows know no such tether. 

H: H: 4: ^ 

"There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." 
If there's a risk, stoop dowp to sip. 

* * * * 

"More haste, worse speed." 
Aye, for speed claims heed. 

The proverb may be Latinized — 
Quo citius properas, tardius ibis eo. 

H-' * * * 

"A cat may look at a king." 
Some cats will do anything. 

* * * * 

"He goes a sorrowing, who goes a borrowing." 
The lender's oft the one who does the sorrowing. 

* * * * 

"A rolling stone gathers no moss." 
What if it doesn't? Where's the loss? 

* * * * 

"All comes to him who has learnt to wait." 
Perhaps; yet it may come too late, 

3fC 2)C ^ ]f£ 

"Well begun is half done." 
And half done is but begun. 

Forty-iJiree 



